


interlude

by IrisParry



Series: in memoriam [2]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-03 00:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15807915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisParry/pseuds/IrisParry
Summary: Thor wakes up alone. He ... might not be alright?





	interlude

**Author's Note:**

> You could play this while you read, if you wanted.

Thor wakes up alone. 

It’s not like it’s the first time, or even the first time in this room, in this house. It’s just that, like so much after Odin’s death, it takes on a whole different quality now. This isn’t his childhood bedroom, not really - no old posters still up on the walls, no toys left on display, like going home in a TV drama. The room matured with him, and when he moved out it was subtly altered to serve as a generic guest room at times, though the layout and decor remain as he likes them. It doesn’t suffocate him with memory, like the family areas of the house can, father’s reading glasses sitting on the table next to the cracked leather armchair in the library, mother’s sewing table in the corner of living room, still waiting for her to return to finish the last project.

No, the room is very much grounded in the present, with only the clothes that fit him in the wardrobe, only the toiletries he bought last week in the bath, everything as he needs it, as he is. This is Thor’s room, now, and this is his house, now, and that’s what hits him when the fog of waking clears every morning. 

It’s Loki’s house too, of course. He stays in his own room sometimes, but clearly has other options he often prefers. The hotel? One of the rooms above the bar? The beds of various lovers? Thor hasn’t asked, doesn’t want to know for sure how he feels about the answer.

Sometimes Loki crawls into Thor’s bed, scares him half to death in the middle of the night, or follows him up after dinner, casually undressing as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. He always takes the side of the bed furthest from the door. Sometimes he lingers there long into the morning, treats the room like his own, and Thor finds the signs all over later, alone the next evening: a paperback shoved under the pillow, half-empty coffee cup left out on the balcony, a shiny brush on the dressing table with dark hair tangled in the bristles. He never takes it away when he leaves. He must have spares. 

Thor doesn’t go to Loki’s room like he used to. More likely than not, he would find it empty. 

So, Thor wakes up alone, but it isn’t memory or longing or loneliness that wakes him, turns him onto his back to stretch and squint in the sunlight coming through the cracks in the curtains. It’s ... music, piano, soft but still carrying the unmistakable quality of an instrument being played, really played, not a recording. There’s also the abrupt changes in the melody, as if someone can’t decide what they really want to play. It might have been years since he heard it in this house.

It’s Loki. There’s nobody else it would be. Did he wake up with itchy fingers? Or did he slip through the front door, then pause at the sight of the vacant stool through a door left ajar? The idea that he felt the compulsion to play, heedless of the hour ... Thor isn’t sure what time it is, now he thinks of it, let alone what this might  _ mean _ . 

Thor rolls over and sighs. Apparently he can’t just lie there and listen, and let it be. It’s tiring, everything so heavy with significance these days, so changed by circumstance that it has to be weighed and measured anew. He rolls over and sits on the edge of the bed, pulling on yesterday’s socks. It’s autumn and the house is getting chilly, the bare parts of the floor enough to make him wince. The piano sounds terribly poignant in the cold, empty house, lamenting the slow but sure shift in the weather, the passage of time.

Loki settles on a piece, as Thor pads downstairs to the parlour in sweatpants and the t-shirt he slept in. It’s a simple, repeating refrain, somehow filled with a deep and elegant melancholy. He doesn’t sing, strange for one who so adores the sound of his own voice, but as Thor approaches softly he can hear Loki murmur a tune almost under his breath, the words a blur, as if he’s just making the sounds to guide his hands. The door to the room is open and Loki still wears his long black coat, swept out to hang behind the piano stool. The freshness of the morning air seems to linger around him, and Thor hesitates at the threshold, listening and breathing it in.

It doesn’t take him long to notice Thor is there. He doesn’t pause or falter, or turn to glare, but his back straightens, ever so slightly, and his playing takes on a more confident, dramatic style. Thor smiles and relaxes against the door frame. Loki hums his way through the song, and it’s better that way; the music just is what it is, no words, no story, nothing pinning it down, all the feeling there in the sound. 

The song tails off rather than finishing with a flourish, in a way that seems intentional and somehow more pompous. Thor applauds, entirely sincerely, and Loki turns to rolls his eyes and pretend to be annoyed. 

“Did I wake you? Sorry,” Loki says, in a tone that suggests he’s actually apologising on Thor’s behalf. “I thought you’d be up and about by now.”

He makes to stand and Thor panics, says quickly, “Play something else.” 

“What?” Loki’s sitting sideways on the stool, looking up at Thor with a half-smile, but his eyes narrow as if he’s looking for the trick. 

“Anything,” Thor says, shrugging and crossing his arms across his chest. He powerfully, painfully does not want Loki to get up and drift off to shut himself in his room. He’s not ready for this to be over yet. “What was that last one?”

“The Sisters Of Mercy,” Loki says. He raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were a fan.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Thor says. “Anything, please.”

Just as it seems he’s pushed too far, that the moment is about to break, Loki sighs theatrically and turns back to the piano, flicking out the back of his coat again so it settles right. 

“Very well,” he says. 

**Author's Note:**

> This morning I was meant to be writing something else but instead I wrote this and also spent 20 minutes googling fancy hairbrushes. Thanks Loki, you little shit.
> 
> Equally affectionate thanks to everyone who commented on in memoriam - I am very happy to hear people enjoyed it and grateful that you took the time to let me know. I just told myself I’d reply to comments at the weekend then did something else then thought I’d left it too long and it’d be weird and I just got the fear, guys. Sorry. I do really appreciate it.


End file.
